Coming Home (Detective Dahlia Book 1)

by Laurèn Lee

  "How much?" I asked.

  She bent close to me. Close enough for me to breathe in her sugary perfume and feel her warm breath against my neck.

  "Twelve dollars," she spoke into my ear.

  I pulled out a twenty-dollar bill from my back pocket and handed it to her. "Keep the change.”

  Before she turned away, I beckoned her closer. "Can I ask you a question?”

  "Sure, but it might cost ya." She giggled. "I'm just kidding. What's up?"

  Hoots and hollers erupted near the stage as two dancers embraced each other, their tongues dancing together. Copious amounts of singles and fives landed at their feet. I forced myself to pull my gaze away.

  "Did you know Callie Jacksun?”

  The server's smile faded. "Yes, she used to work here.”

  "I'm a friend of hers," I said quickly, noticing her sour expression. "I'm just wondering if you know who could have hurt her? Any rough Johns around here?”

  She stood abruptly and held her tray flat against her chest, just below her name tag, which read “Rose.” "Are you a cop?”

  I sipped my drink, wrinkling my nose. I gestured toward her once more. "Not right now.”

  The schoolgirl server turned on her heels, but I reached for her forearm, grazing my fingers against her soft, supple skin. "I just want to know what happened to her!”

  Rose stalked toward the bar. She whispered into the bartender's ear as both women glared in my direction. My shoulders slumped as I leaned against the back of the black, sticky booth. I'd blown it. If only I hadn't been tipsy, I could have had more tact.

  I stayed in the booth and sipped the rest of my drink. Hopelessness washed over me like a high tide under a full moon. At one time, I'd been a damn good cop on my way to making detective. I had a fiancé and my whole life ahead of me. Now, here I was sitting in the back of a strip club watching other women make money and move on with their lives. I remained frozen in the past—a slave to distant memories.

  I gave up, scanning the crowd for Rose to redeem myself. She probably finished her shift or hid, not wanting to talk to a former police officer. I tipped my glass back, feeling a few drops of vodka tickle the back of my tongue.

  Glancing at my phone, I saw that midnight had already come and gone. It was time to go back home before my mom noticed I was gone.

  As I stood, a tall, busty woman strode toward me, also carrying a drink tray. We made eye contact, which didn't break until she reached my table. She handed me a single shot glass atop a napkin.

  "Here, this one's on me," she said, turning to leave before I could speak.

  I gazed around the club, not spotting anyone looking in my direction or paying me any attention.

  Why not?

  I tipped the shot glass back, knowing the Fireball would soon warm my blood. For a moment, the room spun. I sat down and closed my eyes, taking five deep breaths before I gazed at the club before me again.

  The napkin on the table caught my eye. I looked down to see it wasn't a plain napkin, but it had words written in pen across it.

  Tomorrow. 10 am. Night Road Bridge.

  When I looked up to glance around the room, Rose stood at the exit to the Hens' Den, watching me read her note before she slipped out the door and disappeared.

  Fourteen

  That night, I tossed and turned for hours on end. By the time I got home, the clock had neared two in the morning. Visions of Callie and her unknown attacker filled my mind and pushed out any other thoughts. Did Callie feel any pain before she died? Did her killer make it quick? Or drag it out, torturing her?

  During my time on the force, I witnessed more gruesome crimes and acts of evil than I ever cared to talk about.

  We busted one man after his infant daughter was reported missing. We eventually got a lead that the man killed her. Apparently, he had nosy neighbors along with a propensity for carelessness. It turned out that while high on meth, he gave the girl a bath and tried to dry her off in the oven.

  It took every ounce of self-control not to lose my shit on the scene and kill him myself.

  I wished that was the worst of it, but when it comes to humanity, men were the cruelest of beasts.

  Around four in the morning, I relinquished any idea of falling asleep. Instead, I crept out of bed and inched toward the corner of my room. There, I used my fingers to feel for the loose floorboard I'd opened and closed countless times throughout my teenage years. I pressed down, and the opposite side of the board curved upward like a teeter-totter. I pulled it out of the floor to reveal a tiny cubby hole and my secret hideout.

  Just as I'd hoped, a pack of cigarettes and a white lighter lay inside the hole, exactly where I'd left them years ago. I imagined how stale the tobacco would be, but I didn't care. I slipped the half-empty pack and lighter into the back pocket of my sweatpants.

  Then I tiptoed toward my bedroom window. Holding my breath, I pulled the storm window up. I paused to see if the squeaking sound woke anyone up, but silence continued to blanket the house. Next I pinched the bottom of the screen until the clasps gave way, and I pushed it up, revealing the roof above our porch.

  So many times growing up, I snuck out on the roof to look at the stars. I wondered who else looked at the stars at the same time I did. Was there another teenager miles away doing the same? Was there a mother longing for her children to stay young? A child longing to grow up? A man wishing to find the woman of his dreams? A family hoping for better days?

  At any one time, there could have been thousands of people looking at the same sky as me, different people with varying hopes and dreams.

  I climbed out of the window and onto the roof. Nostalgia created a fog that enveloped my entire being. I pulled out a cigarette and slipped it past my lips, my teeth gripping the Marlboro Light while I flicked the lighter. It took a few tries, but I ignited the cigarette and inhaled the sweet and stale taste of tobacco. I closed my eyes while the nicotine rushed through my bloodstream, causing my heartbeat to increase exponentially.

  I sat and puffed away on the cigarette until the ashes kissed the filter. I flicked it off the roof into the neighbors' yard, hoping my mom wouldn't find the butt beside the house.

  I look down the street toward Callie's house. The black and yellow tape still marked the property. Even in the darkness, the neon yellow appeared vibrant. My mind wouldn't let me forget Cameron and Renlee's voices as they said a body had been there for a few days. That it was murder. How could someone kill another in little old Keygate? How could the victim be a little girl I loved? I wanted to stop the images of an unknown person squeezing the life out of poor Callie, but my brain wouldn't shut off.

  I lit another cigarette and pulled out my phone.

  Scrolling through the Photos app, I found pictures from nearly a year ago. Images of a man down on one knee illuminated my phone. In one, I stood beside the man, my hands covering my shocked expression as tears streamed down my cheeks. A friend hid behind a tree to capture the moment.

  Just like in the pictures, tears leaked out of my eyes again. I closed the app and locked my phone. I couldn't look at the photos despite my heart longing to see them. Maybe I was a masochist, begging for the pain.

  At some point while on the roof, dawn approached. The soft lullaby of the birds nestled in the trees grew louder. Soon, my parents would wake up, and the last thing I wanted was for them to catch me smoking cigarettes on the roof. Reluctantly, I took one last puff and flicked the butt. Then I forced myself to crawl back through the window, despite my joints creaking and cracking from sitting in one position too long.

  My nose wrinkled once I noticed that I smelled of smoke and booze, but exhaustion finally tugged at my consciousness. I could shower in a few hours before meeting up with Rose. If she didn't stiff me, of course.

  I pulled the sheet up to my chin, my eyes flickering closed. Unlike before, sleep took hold of me. Visions of Callie with a man's hands around her throat spiraled through my dreams, but at least I slept for a few hours.


  In the shower, I scrubbed my body raw, hoping to eradicate any trace of the vodka and cigarettes from the night before. I didn't have time to pretty myself up. So, without a single stroke or glob of makeup, I hopped into my car and drove toward the Night Road bridge beside the river.

  Storm clouds loomed overhead, threatening rain in the very near future. Despite the ominous scenery, I wouldn't back down now. Rose knew something. Something she couldn't tell me about in public.

  I reached the bridge and flicked on my turn signal. Underneath, it was a dirt road for cars to park. The fresh memory of meeting Noah here sent shivers down my spine, and an ache rattled deep in my belly. I pushed it aside as I put my car in park. My phone read five minutes after ten, but Rose wasn't there yet. I'd wait as long as I had to. If I were to try and find out what happened to Callie, I needed all the information and resources I could get my hands on.

  Several minutes later, heavy raindrops kerplunked onto my windshield. I tapped my fingers on my steering wheel, my anxiety through the roof.

  My phone read 10:30.

  Still no signs of Rose.

  I should have given her my phone number. Or asked for hers. How else was I supposed to get ahold of her now? Sure, I could go back to the Hens' Den, but that wouldn't help me right at this moment. They probably weren't even open now.

  Just as I reached for my keys, the sound of crunching gravel caught my attention. Glancing in my driver's side mirror, I noticed an older white Mustang pull up alongside me. Inside the vehicle, a petite blonde with sunglasses peered over to me. She twirled her fingers as she rolled down her passenger-side window. I, in turn, did the same.

  "Thought you'd blown me off," I said.

  "I almost did," she replied with a weak smile.

  "What's up with the clandestine meeting spot?”

  She peeked over her shoulders. "I might have some information for you.”

  "Okay," I said, drawing out the last syllable. "What is it?”

  "You're definitely not a cop, right?”

  I shook my head.

  "You're not going to tell anyone I talked to you?”

  "You have my word," I said.

  Rose sighed, then cleared her throat. "I loved Callie. She was one of my best friends, but she had a lot of issues.”

  Who doesn't?

  "She dated a lot of guys who came in to watch her dance. Sometimes, the guys found out she was sleeping with other people, and they got heated."

  I tried to mentally take notes of every single thing Rose said. I contemplated recording the conversation but decided against it at the last minute. I needed Rose to trust me.

  "Did any of these men get violent with her?”

  It was Rose's turn to shake her head. "No, not really. Mostly, they'd get pissed off and cause a scene at the club. Jamie, our owner, would have them escorted out."

  I nodded, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Rose peered again over her shoulders. She then took out what looked like a cigarette from her purse. But once she lit it, I knew it wasn't tobacco burning in the rolled papers twirling within her fingers.

  However, I waited patiently. I'd learned that staying quiet was the best way to get others to talk. Most people couldn’t stand the silence, so they'd fill the gaps. Some would even overshare to avoid the awkwardness of a conversation.

  "There was one guy who kept coming back even though he knew she wasn't the monogamous type. He'd never yell at her but would come every night to watch her dance. He scared the shit out of me, to be honest.”

  "What was his name?" The sweet smell of pot wafted into my car, and I wanted to have some too. Sweat pooled at my temples. My body quivered with withdrawal. I should have brought a little bit in a water bottle to nip the discomfort of sobriety.

  "No idea. We all called him Bruce Wayne. He was loaded, but super mysterious too."

  "Did Callie ever say she was afraid of him?”

  "Not exactly, but many times, she'd leave with him. Then, the next day she'd come in with bruises on her arms or ass. She brushed them off like it wasn't a big deal, but we were all worried about her.”

  "How can I find this guy, the one you call Bruce Wayne?”

  "He still comes into the club. He'll be there tonight.”

  "How do you know?" I asked.

  "I just do.”

  Without another word, Rose turned the keys in her ignition, reversed her Mustang from under the bridge and sped away.

  Tonight, I’d head back to the Hens’ Den. Would I meet Callie’s killer at the club? There was only one way to find out.

  Fifteen

  After I left the meeting with Rose, I decided to make a stop before going back to my mom's house. I pulled into my dad's parking lot with two coffees and a half dozen donuts. At the funeral, my dad appeared gaunt, and his clothes hung loosely on his body. He needed some sustenance, even if that meant sweets and sugar.

  Not that I blamed him. After losing Zac, I didn’t eat for days. Instead, I surged through our liquor stash. One bottle at a time. All I did was stare at the wall of pictures with us smiling from the vintage frames with a glass in one hand and my ring in the other.

  I knocked on his door several times before I heard him stir inside. My dad opened the door, his hair sticking up in every which direction. He wore a gray t-shirt with rips and tears and baggy black sweatpants.

  "Hey, Daddy. I brought some treats," I said.

  A faint smile spread across his face as he stepped aside to let me in. Body odor and fast food lingered in the living room. Several empty pizza boxes were littered across the coffee table beside a few McDonald's bags.

  My heart ached for my dad who now understood the grief of losing a partner, the same grief muddled within me. I knew his pain because it was my pain too.

  I handed him a coffee just the way he liked it: black with two sugars. I sipped my Americano and moved to sit. My dad, flustered, attempted to clear away the empty wrappers and newspapers from on the couch.

  "You doing okay?" I asked, knowing the answer.

  "I'm hanging in there," he said.

  I handed him a glazed donut with a napkin. My coffee warmed me up quickly as I'd put in some rum before coming to my dad's door. Should I have done the same for him? It seemed as though a hundred more worry lines graced his face since I last saw him only a short time ago.

  We sat in silence on the couch and ate our donuts while we sipped our coffee. I couldn't help but study the pictures of my dad and Carin on the walls. It broke my heart to know the immense happiness my father felt with her slipped away like the tide. But would it return again? If you lost the love of your life at a certain age, would you ever get another chance at love?

  I hoped with everything inside myself that my dad would find love again, or at the very least, he'd find peace.

  My dad nibbled on the donut, not able to finish it. With tears glistening on his cheeks, he looked to me. "Does it ever get better?"

  Air caught in my throat. I scooted over to him and grasped his hands with mine. "I'd like to think it does. Someday.” I didn't think I was the best person to ask about overcoming one's grief as I sipped my spiked coffee, unable to feel my own emotions or anguish.

  My dad rested his head on my shoulder. We sat there in silence except for the sound of our sniffles and heaving chests. So many times growing up, my dad took away my pain. When I fell off my bike for the first time, he kissed my scrapes. When no one asked me to dance at homecoming, my dad turned on The Beatles and danced with me in his living room. The man who was able to protect me now was the one needing protecting, and I didn't know how.

  "I know you and Carin didn't always see eye to eye on things, but she really did care about you," he said.

  I nodded. "I know. All that mattered to me was that she made you happy.”

  "She did. She really did." My dad stood and wiped away his wet cheeks. He paced the living room and ran his hands through his graying hair.

  "Maybe you could take a trip or something
," I offered. "I mean, getting away from Ashford and his memory is helping me." I didn't say that it wasn't helping very much, but it did a little bit.

  He nodded. "My cousin Jameson has been nagging me to come to visit him in San Francisco.”

  "See! There you go! Those West Coast vibes could help you.”

  "Would it be wrong?”

  Outside, clouds gathered in the sky. Birds zoomed by, chirping in unison.

  "Would what be wrong, Daddy?”

  He returned to sit next to me, turning to face me with a slice of hope radiating in his eyes. “Would it be wrong to leave for a while? Would that seem like I was trying to forget about her?”

  “Not at all. We all have different ways of coping,” I said. “If taking a trip to visit with the family will help, that’s exactly what Carin would have wanted.”

  My dad nodded affirmatively. “That’s what I’ll do then. I’ll call Jameson right away.”

  I smiled. "I hope you have a great time!”

  "Will you be here when I get back?”

  I nibbled on my cheek. "I'm not sure. I don't really know how long I'm staying."

  "Well, I think I'm due to visit Ashford, anyhow.”

  I could sense the hopefulness inside my dad, and I wondered if I too would feel the same any time soon. I rose to leave and give my dad some time to plan and call his cousin.

  "Call me before you leave, okay?" I asked.

  "Thanks, honey.”

  My dad hugged and kissed me goodbye. I felt comfortable leaving because it seemed he had something to look forward to. And so did I.

  Sixteen

  "Hey, you look familiar," the burly bouncer said with a cigarette hanging limply from his lips.

  "Uh-huh," I replied nonchalantly.

  He studied my ID then looked me up and down. "Have a good night!" He grinned, revealing two gold-capped teeth.

  I opened the door, and just as before, a cloud of smoke shimmied outside, encompassing me in its wake. The music blared as Usher serenaded the room through the speakers. Electricity ignited the strip club as men and women alike ogled the dancers on stage baring it all.